This letter is written for you, younger me. If I could go back to that time before the world fall apart beside my feet, I would tell you everything. I would be mad and vent about things that ended did me wrong, about every blood and tear I spent only for welcoming failure and failure that comes like I don’t deserve any kind of goodness.
I won’t tell you that everything will be okay. I will be honest with you. I will speak frankly about what I’ve been through. You will be failed. Things will do you wrong. It doesn’t happen as we expect it would and you will not have the capability to change it. And the sad part of the failure is that it’s not happened because your attempt is not enough, but because nature brings you there and the control is not on your hand to decline. No, it won’t work. Everything you currently strive for now will not meet the end it deserves.
But… run for it anyway. Just do it even if you know how it will end. Because I don’t know any other way to go through. Even if I do, I don’t know what kind of person I would be in that alternate way. I may become someone pretentious with an overbearing attitude because of the failure I succeeded to avoid and the success I attained easily (even if that is what I do deserve anyway). Or a simple man who marries for his abandonment issue’s sake, lives recklessly with a cat who would never leave you unless you did not care for them. Not that I want to say character and sweet disposition are paramount above all else as what the textbooks tell us — what I am now is far from what is called a saint after all. But it’s because I don’t want any other me than this one.
This one may fail in many aspects of his life. His career, his family, his love. But he learned. He is trying his best not to hurt anyone and he might also fail at that, but he tried. He is trying to forgive his mom and dad for what they did wrong, learned from their disastrous decisions not to repeat the same mistake. He has the mind that has been impaired too many times that he now can feel others’ emotions too, not just his own. That’s not even all of what the scrapes and bruises made him.
And yes, this way might not be the best, I admit it. I admit that the possibility is very huge for me to gain more happiness in any other alternative way, but I don’t know what kind of person I will become in other alternate universes. I want this version of me. Wounded, bruised, and the blood painted me as the pleasant painting that others see as me.
I won’t lie to you. Everything will be okay is bullshit and won’t work as you pleased. But you will learn something. You will become the version of yourself who learned from all the catastrophes, who might be not the best, but I am sure you will love the complicated self you will meet in the future.
You won’t be fine. But you will be beautifully wounded.